Faces in the Snow
by Mitasova
Summary: At the foot of Caradhras, snow is falling.


Faces in the Snow  
  
Disclaimer: What is Tolkien's, is Tolkien's.  
  
It is snowing again while we make our camp the night after our hapless attempt to brave Caradhras. Still the Redhorn is reaching for us with its deadly white breath, not willing to lose its prey, though its wrath does not seem quite so potent down hither. In the place of the howling blizzard now quiet, fat flakes are falling, almost peacefully.  
  
Snow is a rarity in Minas Tirith, a great wonder to remember and a delight to every child grown enough to walk but not enough to pretend to not care. Faramir and I have made a snowman once on such an occasion - a Guard, we imagined, complete with winged helmet which I stole from some distracted soldier. We have been conceiving a way to "borrow" a shield for good measure when Father caught us. Mother was still with us then, and Father smiled and laughed freely, slinging Faramir over his shoulder in feigned anger. Faramir, not fooled one bit, was writhing and kicking his feet, making faces at me frome above. Now it all seems like it has happened to someone else.   
  
I watch over my companions as they sit around the fire. Our path was decided, and now everyone is occupying himself with whatever is on their minds. The Wizard and the Ranger are talking quietly to each other, their faces concerned. The Dwarf appears to be slumbering in his bedroll. The Elf, Legolas, is staring apparently at nothing, his eyes gathering the firelight and transforming it into dull coppery glow. The snow that settles on his features is reluctant to melt. I look away from him, to the Halflings.  
  
The Ringbearer is huddled under a pile of coats with Sam stooped protectively over him like a mother-bear. They are all but dark obscure shapes just outside the reach of our meager fire. And a little way away from them, revived with the Elven draught, Peregrin and Meriadoc are throwing snowballs at each other.  
  
Amazing creatures, these Halflings are. So much like children, and yet not. To tell the truth, I was not surprised overmuch to learn that Frodo Baggins is indeed older than I am. Something about him suggests it - his soft, courteous words, his gaze that strays inward ever so often, the way he listens to everyone, but keeps his own thoughts to himself. Though I have my doubts about his chances to succeed - our chances to succeed - I now begin to think that mayhap the Council's judgmemnt was not so amiss after all.  
  
His younger kinsmen are a different story altogether: ever curious and prone to antics that, in all honesty, can be rather troublesome. This quest is less of a toil and more of an adventure to them.  
  
I busy myself with cleaning my dirk, wondering not for the first time, what my place in this Fellowship is? What is my purpose? The sword arm of the White Tower I might be, but on the mission like this, that demands stealth above all else, my sword is of little use. I am not skilled in reading trail, nor familiar with the wilderness surrounding us; I do not posess Elven sight to ken the stars above the thick of the clouds. Making friends with random folks is something that has never been required of me.  
  
'We are a trifle alike', I think, glancing sideways at the two Halflings. They abandoned their game and are settling for the night, arguing fiercely over who is to lie closer to the fire. Well, not entirely alike, as I am able to crash my way where they would stick, trapped. Otherwise, though, as laughable as it may sound, we are birds of a feather. We are out of place, thrown off-kilter. My only place is in Minas Tirith and where ever theirs is, it is decidedly not out in these wastelands, under a mortal peril.  
  
So, perhaps that is my purpose in this motley band - to see that two Halflings will make it through all that is kept in store for us, and return safe and sound to the green hills of their much beloved homeland. That is what I have been born and bred to do - to protect. Children of Gondor come into adulthood much earlier than their sires would wish, and snow, when it graces the White City, gets blemished quickly and melts away. Maybe, with my aid, Merry and Pippin will be spared of such a fate.  
  
My watch is first tonight; all the others are already resting. Pippin is the last to fall asleep, having satisfied himself with shoving a fistful of snow under his friend's collar. There were squirming and muffled threats aplenty, but now their blanket is finally still. I sit with my back to the cold rock, not pretending to be polishing the dirk anymore, and watch the snow softly falling, falling. 


End file.
